The baby is born at dawn.
“Another little girl for you, Mrs. Singleton. Worth all the effort, isn’t she?” The midwife lays the baby in Ruth’s arms.
For a moment mother and child are frozen in a shocked silence. The news is incomprehensible, beyond belief, impossible to
understand. Ruth has knitted blue bootees, a blue bonnet, hand-stitched blue smocking on the front of the tiny nightdress
and stuck a blue teddy transfer on the top of the toy box. She has even replaced the pink duck on the corner of Helen’s old
cot blanket with a big blue rabbit.
“A girl? Are you sure? I was told it would be a boy. That’s what I was expecting. A boy. It’s a boy, isn’t it? It has to be.
That’s what I was promised.”
The midwife pulls the cot blanket aside and shows Ruth the baby’s sex. A wave of darkness sweeps over Ruth as she struggles
to lay claim to a daughter she does not want. She searches the tiny face for some feature that might identify the baby as
hers, something that might stem the breach that has arisen between them. The baby drags stiff fingers over pale cheeks and
closes her eyes, resolutely shutting out the sight of her weeping mother.
“We’ll get the baby checked over by the doctor,” says the midwife, assuming Ruth is distressed by the blueness of the baby’s
skin. “Let me take her for a moment.”
The baby is hastily removed to a table under the window where she is held upside down and slapped on the back. The maneuver
is repeated until there is a weak cry. The midwife loosens her grip on the baby’s ankles and weighs her before passing the
bundle to the doctor. Another cry, louder this time. The new mother barely hears the disturbance. She is numb with shock.
Later she watches in despair as the baby struggles to suckle at her breast. At the earliest opportunity Ruth hands the baby
back to the midwife and, pleading exhaustion, turns away.
Jack is unable to come at visiting time. He is on late shift and can’t see the new baby until the following afternoon. Ruth
is furious. She demands to know why he hasn’t phoned the hospital to inquire about the baby. In a doomed attempt to lighten
her mood with a little humor, he counters that there wasn’t much point. He knew it would be another girl. He shakes his head
and smiles at his new daughter. Ruth spends the rest of Jack’s visit in stony silence, her arms folded across her aching breasts.
Ruth is moved to a side room on the ward when it is obvious that she will not stop crying. The ward sister speaks to her firmly.
“Now, Mrs. Singleton, you must stop all this weeping and wailing. You’re disturbing the other mothers and I won’t have it.
You’ve got a perfectly healthy baby and you’re behaving as if the world has come to an end. Pull yourself together or you’ll
be sent home.”
Ruth is unrepentant. She is sent home the following day.
The baby, Beth, rarely cries. She requires so little, is barely owned by life. She is silent, deeply enclosed between the
high sides of the kitchen drawer that now serves as a cot.
You might not think there’s a lot to spy at night, but you’re wrong! All kinds of things happen at the seaside at night. If
you look you might see flashing lights. The light may be a revolving beam from a lightship anchored out at sea, or a flashing
light from a lighthouse, or it may even be one of the pretty colored lights on the promenade. What did you spot? Score 40
points for an exciting night out.
J
ack and Ruth head back to their room after the evening meal, leaving their daughters in the television lounge glued to
The Six Five Special.
Pete Murray has grabbed the microphone. “Here’s something to get you cats jumping. It’s Cliff with a cool new number. Take
it away, Cliff, and let’s get with the gas!”
Ruth would normally stay and keep her eye on the girls, but she is aware that she very nearly made a fool of herself in the
dining room. Mention of gypsies always has the same effect. If she’d sat with Florrie any longer the whole miserable story
would have come out. There is, though, a second reason for her accompanying Jack upstairs. She has been married to Jack long
enough to know that he’s up to something. She has caught sight of the letter a couple of times—the one that Jack has been
keeping hidden. It’s pointless asking him what it is because she knows he’ll deny all knowledge and hide it so effectively
that it’ll never surface again. Ruth believed initially that it was a redundancy notice, but that idea has been dismissed
since they came to Blackpool. Unlike the Cleggs, Jack wouldn’t dream of forking out for a holiday if he’d no job to go back
to. And anyway Jack is always positive about the prospects at Fosters. Surely the company must be doing even better since
rival firms started shutting.
Ruth has caught a glimpse of the heavily creased envelope—it is an odd yellowy white. Business letters are invariably brown,
like wage packets. A white envelope means it’s likely to be a personal letter. It didn’t come in the post to the house—Ruth
picks up the post every day without fail—so it must have been handed to Jack. Who would be handing him letters at work? It
is a puzzle that has been exercising Ruth since the start of the holiday and the opportunity to go through Jack’s pockets
is too good to miss. Jack takes off his jacket and heads off down the corridor to the bathroom. The minute the door closes
behind him Ruth darts over to his discarded jacket and starts going through all the pockets. Nothing. She’d have bet a pound
to a penny the letter was in his inside pocket at tea. She was sure of it. He must have switched it to his trousers when he
was following her up the stairs to their room. Frustrated, Ruth bangs herself down on the bed and glares at the door, waiting
for Jack to return.
When he knocks to be let in she opens the door and walks to the other side of the bed, her arms folded across her chest. “I
don’t know why you’re rushing out tonight,” she offers as an opening salvo. “Where are you going, anyway?”
“I said I’d meet Tom Bell at Yates’s.”
“Why?”
“Because he arranged it last Friday, before I left work. I didn’t see any harm. I’ll only be a couple of hours.”
Ruth tolerates Jack having the odd pint for one reason only. Jack doesn’t drink like her father drinks. Jack doesn’t come
home after a night in the pub swearing his head off and throwing punches right, left and center. Ruth’s father, like Noah,
has been “drunken and uncovered in his tent” more than once. Ruth’s dad has a familiarity with the contents of the Prayer
Book, which only emerges when he’s had one over the eight. He will quote freely from the Bible. “Thou shalt drink of thy sister’s
cup which is deep and large”—this delivered in terms of an order while negotiating the back step. And “I have digged and drunk
strange waters” (Isaiah 36: 25)—this when he tripped and fell head first into the stone sink. There’s no point in Ruth campaigning
to go out with Jack, even supposing he ever asked her. Ruth can’t stomach alcohol. Jack says he goes for the company as much
as the beer. But Ruth is inevitably left wondering what’s wrong with her company.
When Jack picks up his jacket from the bed Ruth says, “Just a minute, I want to have a word with you. Are you sure there isn’t
something you need to tell me about?”
“Not now, Ruth. I haven’t time for games. I’m going to be late.”
“Tom Bell is fully capable of keeping himself amused for a couple of minutes. You’ve had a letter, haven’t you?”
Jack notes the look on Ruth’s face. She’s obviously spotted Eleni’s letter and she’s spoiling for a fight. Jack’s head whirls
with the effort of forming an acceptable reply. “Yes, you’re right. I’ve heard that it’s likely the Union is going to offer
me something. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure.”
This neat diversion has the desired effect. Ruth flushes with excitement and helps him on with his jacket. “How much?”
“How much what?”
“Money, of course. It’ll mean an increase, won’t it?” Ruth gasps with pleasure. “You’ll be on a
salary
!”
“I’d bloomin’ well hope so. Anyway, I don’t want you to be disappointed—my information may be wrong. Let’s see what they have
to offer first.”
Jack can hear his heart thumping in his ears as he makes his way out of the hotel. He is aware that he’s only escaped by the
skin of his teeth. For some reason this makes the letter even more precious. His fingers run over the envelope where Eleni
has stuck the stamps. The burden of his other family is made sweeter by the secrecy.
Out in the fresh air of the prom and safe from Ruth’s questions, Jack slows his walk and admires the view. It is coming up
to high tide and the sea defenses cup a full, smooth curve of rising water. It’s a clear night. A slight breeze sways the
line of colored lights strung between the lampposts. Beyond the promenade the sea is calm, beneath a serene sky. It’s a fair
walk down to Yates’s. Plenty of time for Jack to think over the coming meeting. The Union offered him the job of area rep
last month, a couple of days after Fosters offered him the post of manager of Prospect Mill. Only a fool would imagine it
was a coincidence. Tom Bell will be expecting an answer from him this evening. Ten years ago he’d have stuck with the Union,
come hell or high water. But things have changed. Cotton is under threat from all sides—if it’s not the government trying
to shut the mills, it’s the market flooded with cheap foreign imports. As usual it’s all down to the mill owners. If they
can’t be persuaded to invest in Lancashire cotton, they’ll invest somewhere else and then where will the industry be?
Jack is a fervent believer in cotton. There are no qualities displayed by linen, silk, velvet or any one of the half-dozen
other materials available that are a patch on cotton. Get the correct weave and weight (knowledge Jack acquired at evening
classes at the Institute of Cotton Manufacturers in Manchester) and you can produce anything from the finest wedding lace
to weatherproof canvas sails that will resist the worst Atlantic storms. Cotton is the only material known to man that will
absorb twenty-four times its own weight in fluid and withstand 280 degrees of heat. The Lancashire cotton industry has supplied
the world with everything from nappies to shrouds and all points in between. From cotton towels, blankets, tea towels, tablecloths,
curtains and twill sheets to shoe linings, stockings, socks, skirts, trousers, overalls, pajamas, underwear, blouses, shirts
and hats. In the hands of Lancashire manufacturers cotton has been transformed into a giddy selection of brocades, crêpes,
muslins and georgettes, woven into everything from coarse monk’s cloth to delicate cloqué. There is no wastage with cotton
as even the most inferior fiber can be used for shoddy and crash. The fabric is a source of endless fascination to Jack. He
carries the memory of the different weaves imprinted on his fingertips. There are fabric samples in his pockets and blueprints
for new designs in his head. There isn’t a weave he can’t recognize on sight.
Ruth watches Jack walk out of the hotel and turn left along the prom from the bedroom window. The sense of relief that floods
through her makes her dizzy. The letter is nothing more than a note—it’ll be to do with this Union job. The prospect of a
semi has drawn immeasurably closer with the news. Jack will finally be earning enough to cover the increase in running a bigger
house. Why, within a couple of hours she may finally have got Jack to agree to buying a new semi on Boundary Drive! The prospect
is so exciting that it makes her restless. Ruth opens her magazine with a new enthusiasm. Before her lies the prospect of
actually owning goods that previously she has only been able to dream about. She studies the adverts closely. Addis has brought
out a new range of colored plastic brushes, pails, flip-top bins and kitchen tidies, which divert her attention for a couple
of minutes. She wouldn’t buy red of course, but yellow would be a refreshing change.
Sandwiched between the problem page and this month’s horoscopes, Ruth comes across an article by a Mrs. D. D. Heatherington
Taylor. It’s a piece about stay-at-home mothers. Ruth’s interest is sparked. It’s not two minutes since the government was
bending over backwards to keep wives at home. That way the returning soldiers could pick up where they left off at their old
jobs. Everywhere you looked there were posters saying thanks very much for your war work, but now it’s time to return to the
kitchen sink and bring up the first postwar generation. Ruth didn’t need telling—that’s precisely what she wanted to do. Now
she reads an article, in
Good Housekeeping
of all places (they should be ashamed of themselves), recommending that wives desert domesticity in pursuit of personal achievement
outside the home. It’s outrageous. It’s nonsensical. Ruth doesn’t see herself as an individual. How could she be when she’s
bringing up two daughters? If she’s doing it properly there isn’t time to be an individual—when she’s not the children’s mum,
she’s Jack’s wife. What decent mother has time to be an individual? But Mrs. D. D. Heatherington-Taylor is adamant. She writes,
“Modern mothers who make no plan outside the family for their future will not only play havoc with their own lives, but will
make nervous wrecks of their overprotected children and husbands.”
Ruth violently disagrees and is about to throw the magazine aside in disgust when there’s a frantic knocking on the door.
It’s Helen. The girl is flushed with excitement and the effort of racing up six flights of stairs.
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s a phone call for you! The manager’s wife told me to tell you. You can take it in the booth in the lobby.”
Mother and daughter hurry downstairs. Ruth picks up the phone with one hand and waves an inquisitive Helen away with the other.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Ruth. It’s Cora.”
“Cora!”
“Can you come over, Ruth?”
“What? Now? Are you all right?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. But I need to see you.”
“Why? What’s happened? You were right enough this afternoon. What’s gone wrong?”